New Year's Eve at 221B
by katkin
Summary: "Right, so...what is party food, John? I'm thinking noodles." "What? No, not noodles. First of all, it needs to be things that people can eat off paper plates with their fingers, and secondly no, we're not having a party!"
1. 30th December 2010

AN: Hello and welcome to my sequel to Christmas at 221B (though this can most certainly be read on its own.) As my other half is ill with man-flu, and therefore out of the way, I will actually be able to have it all posted by the end of this year. I didn't think I'd manage it (Not that I'm celebrating his illness or anything *shifty smile*).

Wishing you a very happy 2011

K xxx

30th December 2010

John Watson wandered lazily back from the bathroom, running his hand through his dishevelled hair. It was nearing 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and John was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown which gave him a sense of freedom and guilt all at the same time. He made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on and stopped at the sight of his flatmate, sat in his coat at the wooden kitchen table staring at a laptop which John recognised to be his own.

"You've changed your password again."

John sniffed into the bottle of milk, grimaced, and then turned to face his flatmate who was browsing the internet with mild interest.

"Didn't stop you though," John murmured. "Hello, by the way, it's nice to see you too. Thanks for stopping by."

Sherlock looked up with a scoff.

"John, I've only been gone a few hours."

"Three days, Sherlock. You've been gone for three days. I haven't seen you since Boxing Day."

"Ah...I should probably have a shower then."

"Yes, please do."

John sat himself down with his black coffee and scowled when Sherlock made no attempt to move.

"I've decided we're having a party on New Year's Eve," Sherlock spoke eventually, to the laptop screen. John blinked and ran a hand over his face. He must have been mistaken. He thought he'd heard Sherlock suggest a social gathering. It would be best to clarify.

"A party? As in...with people?"

Sherlock looked up at John in mock distain.

"Yes, obviously John. Unlike our usual parties, where it's just the two of us." He grinned widely at his confused housemate. "I thought I'd mention it anyway, as I've already posted it on your blog." Sherlock rose swiftly and left the room, pleased with himself, leaving John in a daze.

Later that day, Sherlock brandished a pen from the desk and began to scribble with enthusiasm onto a notepad. At the top of the page John read the words: Party provisions. He gave a difficult swallow.

"Oh God, I thought you were joking." He sat himself down next to Sherlock, pre-empting the argument that was to come.

"Right, so...what is party food, John? I'm thinking noodles."

"What? No, not noodles. First of all, it needs to be things that people can eat off paper plates with their fingers, and secondly no, we're not having a party!" He snatched the list from Sherlock who looked highly put out.

"Why not?"

"Look Sherlock, parties are more hassle than they're worth. Why do you even want one anyway?"

Sherlock was still scowling at the crumpled list in John's hand. It was going to be a challenge to convince John. He'd known this from the beginning. Perhaps he should tell John the real reason for holding the party? Surely John would figure out that Sherlock was up to something eventually. But John was pretty stupid. No, he'd use another tactic.

"John, I have never had a party before," he explained sadly.

"What? Never?"

"No. Come on, it'll be fun. When have I ever been wrong about anything?" He continued to speak as John opened his mouth to retort. "Besides, twenty nine days after our party will be our Frien-iversary."

"Don't, Sherlock," John cringed, hearing the word he himself had coined. "We agreed we wouldn't use that word unless we were suitably drunk. Fine, if we're doing this properly, put alcohol on the list." He shoved the notepad back in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock hid his victory smile as he lowered his eyes to the page.

"Speaking of alcohol, your sister is coming."

"What? No! Sherlock why are you so intent on pissing me off today?"

"She saw it on the blog," Sherlock pointed out with a shrug.

"_You_ put it on the blog! Right, that's it, I'm inviting Mycroft."

Though John was fairly certain Mycroft would be aware of his younger brother organising a gathering of innocent human beings, John snatched Sherlock's phone from the desk and typed clumsily with fast fingers.

_We're having a party for NYE. Please come. Lots of love Sherlock xxx_

Sherlock glared at the message in the Sent Box. At that moment, two mobile phones chimed in quick succession. John pulled his phone from his pocket and squinted at the screen.

_Thank you for the invite, John. I may pop in if passing. MH_

John wafted the phone in Sherlock's face with glee. Sherlock was too busy reading his own message:

_Announcing your engagement? M_

Sherlock wrinkled his nose with displeasure as he formed his eloquent response:

_Piss off! P.S Don't come._

Satisfied that he'd cleaned up John's mess, Sherlock went back to scribbling his shopping list.

"I need to verify that list before you go to the shops," John spoke up irritably from the sofa. Sherlock frowned. He thought John would be going to the shop. That was the point in creating the list. However, forcing John to do the shopping would increase the risk of John cancelling the party, so he simply nodded, vaguely recalling the pleading words of their therapist that Sherlock should never visit a supermarket ever again. He shrugged the thought away.

John was in the process of hoovering the flat when Sherlock returned successfully from the supermarket. John switched off the hoover and watched Sherlock as he emptied the contents of his shopping bags with gusto into various cupboards.

"Cheesy puff?" he offered, wafting a packet in John's face.

"Speak for yourself," John retorted.

"We have a hoovered flat, we have food, we have alcohol and we have a growing guest list," Sherlock noted, glancing through his emails on his phone. "It's surprising how many people had nothing to do on New Year's Eve until this morning. How very sad. I feel quite embarrassed that I know these people."

"And what were _your_ plans before this morning Sherlock?" John piped up. Sherlock chose to ignore him and headed for the stereo in the living room.

"Should we have music? Will people talk over music? Very few guests will have a similar taste in music. How do we please everyone?"

"Radio?" John suggested. Sherlock flicked through his own collection of classical CDs.

"Do you own music John?"

"Only this." John produced Susan Boyle's album from the shelf.

"This is it? This is the only music you own?_ I_ bought this for you."

"Stole," John corrected. "You stole this for me."

Sherlock inserted the CD and they listened with a disturbed interest. Mrs Hudson came bustling in, looking very surprised at the sight of the shopping bags in the kitchen.

"Oh, I've got this album somewhere," she cooed. "She's ever so good, isn't she?"

Sherlock looked up at John with a guilty grin and John hid his laugh behind his hand.

"Mrs Hudson, we're having a party tomorrow night and you're cordially invited of course," Sherlock told her to deflect her attention from John whose shoulders were shaking in silent laughter. Mrs Hudson beamed widely.

"Oh lovely," she exclaimed. "I'll make a trifle." She hurried off.

"Please do," Sherlock called after her and John elbowed him in the ribs.

"Behave yourself please. Right, that's music sorted."

"Radio?"

"Yes, radio. As grateful as I am to receive this as a Christmas present from you, it really is hideous."

The pair spent the evening trying to forget about their impending party by watching rubbish television and resisting the urge to eat the food Sherlock had bought for the following evening.

"Are you het up?" John asked across the sofa, where Sherlock sat chewing on his thumb knuckle.

"What? No. Why?"

"You look anxious. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Sherlock lied. "I'm just mulling things over. Plus, I'm slightly concerned that this programme is warping my mind. What are we watching?"

"Coronation Street. What are you thinking?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Doesn't matter."

"Look, Sherlock it's not too late to cancel you know. I can't be arsed if I'm honest."

"No, no we can't cancel. It'll be fine. Besides, you wouldn't want to miss out the chance to meet the future Mrs Watson, would you?"

This was Sherlock strongest tact at convincing John to continue with the party plan. John would get drunk, definitely. And kiss a girl... probably. He smiled broadly and encouragingly at John who looked doubtful.

"You're right, if my future wife is Molly, Mrs Hudson or my sister."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, his interest waning.

"Each to their own John, each to their own."


	2. 31st December 2010

31st December 2010

The clock was nearing 7pm, and John stood in the middle of the kitchen, biting his thumbnail. A strange ball of panic had begun to inflate in his stomach. What if nobody turned up? What if somebody _did_ turn up? He chided himself for feeling like a teenage girl before her first sleepover. He was a grown man. So what if no one turned up? It was short notice after all. It'd be just him and Sherlock, and that was absolutely fine. He put a bottle of vodka in the fridge, while at the same time checking for any limbs or hazardous chemicals in unlabeled bottles. Everything was ready. Everything was organised. He rearranged a bowl of cheesy puffs in the centre of the kitchen table.

"All sorted, John?" Mrs Hudson asked in a cheery voice as she entered with a large bowl of trifle. John shook his head as he chewed on his nail again.

"No, no it's not. I'm freaking out. What's wrong with me?"

"Get a grip, John dear. Where's Sherlock got to anyhow?"

John pivoted around on his heels, scanning the kitchen in confusion, as if he'd just noticed that his flatmate wasn't there.

"I don't know. I thought he was with you downstairs."

Mrs Hudson shook her head slightly and she too felt the need to rearrange the cheesy puffs. John began to charge through the flat. He checked Sherlock's bedroom: empty. He checked the bathroom: empty, and surprisingly clean. As he was running out of rooms to check, John heard his phone chirp from the depths of his trouser pocket.

_I've had to go out. I won't be long. SH_

John growled in displeasure and typed angrily in response:

_I told you, we don't need noodles! Come home now._

Sherlock didn't reply.

The first person to arrive at 7:29 pm was Harriet Watson. She beamed at her brother as he opened the door.

"I'm so excited," she squealed, shoving a bottle of white wine into his chest. John shut the door behind her and rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

Harry was left chatting amiably to Mrs Hudson, while John put the radio on for background noise and then poured himself a large glass of wine. He was on his third gulp when the doorbell rang again. Over the next half hour John charged up and down the stairs opening the door to people he vaguely knew and people he didn't know at all. By eight o'clock he'd decided that the best place for him was perched on the bottom step, the half-empty bottle of wine squeezed precariously in the crook of his elbow, and a full glass held tightly between two hands. He gave a little smile at the sound of people guffawing on the first floor. Their party was coming along nicely. Well, _his _party. There was still no sign of Sherlock.

At half past 8, the doorbell rang and John sloshed his wine as he rose from the bottom step and stumbled to the door.

"Greg," he cheered, pulling the Detective Inspector into a hug. He was extremely pleased to welcome a guest that he actually recognised.

"Ok, this is weird," came Lestrade's muffled voice from John's shoulder. "You've started early, John."

"Yes. Yes, I have. Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Um...No, I haven't. I thought he'd be here."

John shook his head wildly, and then ushered his guest to the staircase.

"Go. There are people upstairs, and alcohol, and cheesy puffs."

Lestrade nodded vaguely and headed upstairs, watching John sit back down heavily on the bottom step and pull out his phone.

_Wehre are you? Peaple are here. Im fruightened. Bring more wine please! Thank you xxx_

The message was sent, and the phone dropped to the floor. John rested his head on his knees. From above him, he heard footsteps descending the staircase, and felt a body wedge itself next to him on the step. He looked up to see his sister grinning at him.

"You just sent me this." She showed him his former message on the screen of her phone. John squinted at it in confusion.

"Oh sorry. That wasn't meant for you."

"I gathered that, it has three kisses."

John just shrugged and grabbed at his phone to forward the message to its correct recipient.

"What are you doing down here anyway?" his sister asked. She took a sip from her glass. John snatched it from her and took a sniff. "It's just coke! Don't be a dick-head Mr Hypocrite."

John tried to offer her an apologetic smile, but found that his face wouldn't work properly. He suspected that he looked rather drunk. The thought amused him.

"Come on John, you're missing all the fun. It's _your_ party."

"No, it's not my party. It's Sherlock's party, and he can't even be bothered to show up. In fact, he's probably deleted it from his hard-drive because it's about as important as I am!"

Harry stared at her brother for a long moment.

"Dude, I seriously have no idea what you're on about."

The doorbell rang and both Watsons looked up from their perch.

"I'll get it," Harry insisted, very much doubting that John could get up anyway. The door was opened to reveal a nervous Molly, looking pretty in a pink halter-neck top and shivering without a coat.

"Oh, hello. I'm looking for Sherlock and John."

"That's half of them," Harry replied with a smile, glancing over her shoulder to where her brother was waving wildly from his step. Molly waved back, a little less enthusiastically. The door was closed behind her and Molly made her way to the bottom of the stairs.

"Hi John."

"'Lo," he mumbled back before hiccoughing loudly. They stared at each other awkwardly. John looked at what she had in her hands.

"Did you bring Sherlock?"

"Um...no it's wine. Why, is Sherlock not here?"

"Nope. He's forgotten."

"He'll be along in a bit," Harry corrected. Molly's face brightened. "Head on up, we'll be up in a minute. No, no don't leave that here, take that with you," Harry insisted, pushing the wine bottle back towards Molly. Molly smiled politely and teetered up the stairs in her heels. Harry watched her go.

"She seems nice."

"What? No. No, Harry. She's not your type at all. You could eat someone like Molly for breakfast. You'll terrify her. She's sweet, and my friend, well Sherlock's friend...sort of. Please just behave yourself, ok?"

Harry nodded with a teasing smile and followed up the stairs after Molly leaving John alone and trying to recall what they'd been talking about. Ah yes, Molly.

He picked up his phone and began to type:

_Mollyts here she wants a kiss at nidmight._

John read the text and then deleted it, realising that this was probably the worst way of getting Sherlock Holmes to come home. He tried again:

_Mollys here and if u dont come home i'll kiss her at midnight. Mayeb_

He read it again, and again chose to delete it. Sherlock would be grateful to lose Molly's attention. He tried a final attempt:

_Hav gfound body in bathroom it is dead i thinnk come jhome nowe!1!_

John grinned and pressed send. Three minutes later his phone beeped a reply, making him jump. He giggled slightly as he fumbled for his phone.

_Nice try. Wine is not your friend, John. SH_

John scoffed at this. At least wine had bothered to show up to the party. He stared with bleary eyes at the time on his phone. It was nearly half past nine. Was that all? He'd missed Eastenders. John considered going to bed. Would that be rude with a houseful of guests? He decided that yes, it might be. Therefore it'd be a better idea to leave in search of Sherlock. Adamant that he had his shoes on, John stumbled to the door. As he pulled it open he was greeted with a polite Holmesian smile.

"You're not Sherlock," he remarked loudly.

"No, John. Well observed," Mycroft Holmes smiled tightly. "Having fun, it would seem."

John gave a giggle and frowned as it reached his own ears. What was funny?

"I didn't think you'd actually come here."

"Well, I was just passing. I thought I'd better make sure he was behaving himself in polite company."

"He's not here," John stated bluntly, wobbling on the spot. Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised. "You'll know where he is. Where is he? You know where he is all the time, like bathroom trips and stuff."

"Not quite all the time," Mycroft said slowly. "John, are you ok?"

"Yesimfine," John slurred. "I'm just sad because he's missing his only party he's ever had in the world. Why would you never let him have a party, Mycroft? You're just mean!"

"Oh John, surely you didn't think that that was true?"

John blinked in confusion. What wasn't true? What were they talking about? Oh right, Sherlock and his lack of parties.

"I'm not quite sure what you're saying," John admitted with a sheepish smile. "But I like you. You should come over more often. Ooh, come over for dinner tomorrow!"

"Perhaps some other time," Mycroft replied, smiling at John who had slumped himself against the door frame. "I'd best be off John. If I see Sherlock, I'll let him know you were asking after him...Uh, John...would you like some help upstairs?"

"Nope, no I'm all good."

Mycroft nodded in uncertainly and walked away, leaving John propped up in the doorway. He shut the door with a bang and wandered past the bottom step and up the stairs towards his flat. The noise of enjoyment hit him loudly as he made his way into the living room. Surely not all of these people had passed him on the way into the house? How else would they have gotten in? He glanced around for someone less inebriated to talk to. If these people had gotten in, maybe Sherlock had too. From the kitchen, he heard Lestrade call his name. John smiled and headed to join him.

"Having fun?" John asked as he accepted a bottle of beer.

"Yeah. Though apart from your lovely landlady, I have no idea who anyone is."

"Oh, well that over there is my sister Harriet. Careful, she bites. And over there is Angelo, you must know him, he makes the best tagliatelle."

"Yes, we have met," Lestrade mused thoughtfully.

"Oh, and Molly, you know Molly obviously; she works in that shop where Sherlock gets all of his stuff."

"You mean the morgue?"

"Yes," John hissed with laughter. "That's what I meant. Silly. I really have no idea who anyone else is or why they are in my house."

At that moment, loud music began to pump out from the living room followed by the voice of a woman singing. John frowned and the pair headed to the living room door, where they witnessed Harry and Molly singing along gleefully to a rendition of Lady Gaga's 'Telephone' into what appeared to be some sort karaoke machine. Did the machine belong to John? He didn't know. How had it made its way up the stairs and into the house? Possibly the same way that most of the guests had. John was beginning to wonder if he'd fallen asleep on the stairs.

He found his phone and began to type as the crowd cheered along merrily:

_Peolpe are singing is theus normal? Whre are you?_

The message took several attempts to send. John shoved the phone grumpily into his pocket. The song came to an end and the room exploded with applause. Molly looked embarrassed but Harry looked pleased with herself. They gave a little curtsy.

"Our turn!" John exclaimed loudly before shoving Lestrade with some force towards the television. Lestrade looked taken aback and shook his head insistently. 'Shame' began to play through the speakers and John beamed.

"Greg, Greg...GREG! I'll be Robbie, you be Gary, come on come on! Do it now." He threw his phone to his sister who caught it clumsily. "Phone Sherlock. Do it now. Come on." John gave a giggle.

Harry shook her head as she brought the phone away from her ear.

"Networks are busy on New Year's Eve. It's his voicemail."

John gave a shrug and was then distracted as the words scrolled across his television screen.

"_Well there's three versions of this story; mine and yours and then the truuuuth_...GREG!"

John spent most of the song bellowing to Lestrade to join him for the chorus. Lestrade eventually obliged. They shared a chorus and a verse together before John spent the rest of the song telling Lestrade (and subsequently the rest of the room) how much he liked Lestrade as he was clever for knowing words to songs. Lestrade pointed out that the words were in fact on the screen.

The song came to an end and the guests applauded politely.

"Again!" John cheered.

"No!" replied several guests in unison.

John chuckled to himself and stumbled out of the room, leaving Lestrade holding the two microphones.

"Your phone, John." Harry passed the mobile phone back to John who put it against his ear.

"Hello? Hellooo? Oh, there's no one there. I'm such an idiot!" he hissed with laughter.

"John, enough drink now ok?" Harry told him firmly. "Go outside and get some air. I'll make you a coffee."

John obeyed and made his way on bandy legs back down the stairs to the front door where he found Molly, shivering in the cold night air, fidgeting with her phone.

"No signal," she told John with a shy smile. "I suppose it's getting near to midnight."

John was puzzled. He had no idea what time it was and told Molly so. She smiled again.

"Thanks for inviting me tonight. It's been a rough year, what with everything that happened. I'm just looking forward to starting again in 2011."

John leant back against the brick wall and studied her. Was she about to cry? Drunken singing he could handle, but not crying.

"Yeah, me too," he agreed quickly. "Hey, Molly why don't you be Mrs Watson?"

She blinked through her tears and looked up at him in confusion. A nervous smile formed on her pale face.

"John, are you asking me to marry you?"

"Kinda, yeah," John sniffed. "It was Sherlock's idea."

"For you to propose to me?"

"For me to propose to _somebody_," John corrected. Was that what Sherlock had suggested? He was struggling to remember now.

"Oh," said Molly quietly, mulling this information over in her head. "Listen John, you're very sweet, and _extremely_ drunk, but after the year I've had I've decided to give men a miss for a while. Thanks for asking though."

John nodded, unfazed.

"My sister's a lesbian," he announced. "You know, if you fancied being Mrs Watson another way."

Molly laughed very loudly at this, gaining the attention of a couple who were walking past on the opposite side of the street.

"Thank you John," she said sincerely, taking his cold hand and giving it a squeeze. "You're very thoughtful."

From the living room window they heard the loud raucous bellow of a countdown. It took John a moment to realise what they were counting down to.

"It's midnight," Molly prompted.

"Oh," John said quietly, feeling like an idiot. Molly stepped in and gave him a hug.

"Happy New Year, Molly."

"Happy New Year, John."

They leant in for a quick kiss, and John knocked his nose against her forehead. She gave a laugh.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm far too drunk for this."

"It's ok," she replied and gave him a quick kiss before he could notice and head-but her again.

"Yay," he said quietly as they pulled apart. "Are you sure you don't want to marry me?"

"Quiet sure," she insisted. John nodded, finally accepting her answer. Molly gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then opened the front door. "Pass that on to Sherlock for me."

She headed back into the house leaving John standing alone in the street, listening to the popping of fireworks in the distance.

Sherlock.

John suddenly realised that he hadn't thought of Sherlock for a while. He'd given up waiting for him to show up. It had been too much to hope for that they could do something normal together, as two normal housemates. Two normal friends. John sighed as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

_I asdked molly to marry me like you sufggested but she saids no. i got a kiss though so not all bad. Im the lucky one who is haveing fun. Youre a loser who forgot to show up to his own party. Im clever youre an iditot xxx_

The message gave several attempts at sending. John got bored and cold eventually, so he shoved it back into his pocket to let it think on it some more, before turning and heading back into the house.

John was vaguely aware of people chattering around him as he slumped himself into Sherlock's armchair. Midnight had come and gone, and therefore people should now go home. John was too polite, or rather too drunk, to announce this so he left them too it, discussing the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne. Mrs Hudson was singing her rendition rather loudly. John grimaced. Drunken singing was just rude, he decided.

Harry made her way over to her brother and sat down on the arm of the chair. She handed him a mug of black coffee and stroked his hair from his eyes. He sipped it with displeasure.

"I'm really drunk."

"I know John."

"I feel sad," he said tearfully.

"Why?"

He shrugged in response and took another sip of his coffee before sloshing it on the coffee table.

"Because I'm drunk," he decided, rubbing at his itching eyes. Harry rolled her eyes and rose from the chair, leaving John to wallow in his own drunken sorrow. His phone beeped and he pulled it out with an air of inconvenience.

_I'm the _'iditot'_? Think this through please, won't you John? SH_

John decided that he would indeed think this through, seconds before his chin hit his chest. His phone dropped from his hand and onto the floor with a clunk. The 'iditot' was now fast asleep.


	3. 1st January 2011

And so it concludes...

1st January 2011

It was nearing 3am when John looked up from the washing up bowl to find that most of his guests had left. It was a relief. He itched his nose with his sleeve as the soap suds dripped from his hands. From the kitchen door, a sleepy female voice spoke up.

"Nice Marigolds!" His sister joined him at the sink and rested her head on his shoulder. He gave her a kiss on the top of her head.

"I do love you. You know that, don't you?"

"Urgh, shut up John. You're drunk." Harry gave a laugh and studied John's face for a moment. "I'm sorry Sherlock didn't show."

John just gave a sniff of indifference and continued to concentrate on his washing up.

"That's Sherlock for you. This is what he does. He'll turn up, probably in a day or two, when he's hungry or lonely."

"You seem–"

"What? Irritated?"

"Disappointed," Harry decided. John gave a sad smile.

"Maybe a little. Anyway, thanks for this; for depressing me. Really helpful! Why don't you do something useful for a change?" He nodded towards the tea towel and Harry gave a snort.

"I don't think so!" She left quickly, grabbing a bowl of crisps on her way to the living room.

Half an hour later, John found himself sat alone on the sofa, finishing off a bottle of wine which he tried to convince himself was the same one he'd started the party with. The radio played quietly, and John hummed along tunelessly to fill the otherwise empty silence. He barely registered the sound of footsteps up the stairs and his flatmate enter with a weary smile and sit down heavily beside him on the sofa. Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh and looked around him.

"Where is everybody?"

John gave a slurp of his drink and then passed it to Sherlock who sniffed it in displeasure before taking a sip.

"Home, they have gone." John frowned at his own sentence, wondering when he'd turned into Yoda.

"Oh," Sherlock said, genuinely surprised. "Have I missed it?"

"Yes. Yes, you've missed it. It's half past three in the morning. Welcome to 2011." Attempting and failing to rise from the sofa in a huff, John settled for crossing his arms over his chest and grimacing. "Where've you been Sherlock?"

Sherlock took another sip.

"Oh, I've had a case for the past couple of days. Lestrade has been really ratty about it, saying I'm putting them off and sending them in circles. He was really unpleasant about it. He even banned me from getting involved. So, therefore I had to orchestrate a party to distract him while I got on with my job." He smiled at John and helped himself to a handful of tortilla chips. "Is that ok?"

John blinked at him. All of this had been a ruse? John had wasted time, energy and money simply for Sherlock's own gain. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to laugh in disbelief. He found he was too tired to do either. When John couldn't find the words to respond, Sherlock took this as a yes.

"Did Mycroft stop by?"

"Briefly," John mumbled. He wished Sherlock hadn't taken the wine from him.

They sat in silence as they shared the solitary glass of wine and listened to a rowdy crowd of people make their way down Baker Street. After a brief moment John leaned in to Sherlock and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Sherlock blinked at him, stunned.

"Ok, what was that for?"

"_That_ was from Molly. _This_," he punched Sherlock hard on the arm, causing him to yelp in pain, "This is from me. Thanks for standing me up at our own party. I looked like a proper loser! Don't you ever, _ever_ do that to me again."

Sherlock looked taken aback.

"I never actually said I was going to attend," he pointed out dryly, rubbing his sore arm. "You just assumed. Besides it looks like you've had a nice time." He surveyed the mess which had been left behind. "I got your voicemail by the way. Very...tuneful."

His words made John's face brighten slightly.

"Yeah, well, you missed out. Next time we have a party, can it be like our usual parties?"

"You mean just you and me?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock nodded his agreement as he studied John tired face.

"Thank you John. You've been really helpful tonight."

"It would have been nice to have known I was being helpful," John slurred into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock gave a little chuckle.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Guess."

John grinned at Sherlock who gave a laugh.

"Go to bed John. You're drunk and an idiot." He helped his inebriated flatmate from the sofa, and up the next flight of stairs to his bedroom. John giggled as he rolled onto the bed. Sherlock switched on the bedside lamp and pulled back the duvet as John crawled into bed fully clothed and lay very still. He cringed as he gave a hiccough.

"Sherlock," John whispered as Sherlock pulled the duvet up to his chin. "You are by far my most favourite person in the world. Have I ever told you that?"

"No," Sherlock said bluntly, looking down at his beaming friend. "But I already knew that, you didn't need to tell me."

"Oh, ok. Night then. See you in 2011!"

"It already is 2011," Sherlock pointed out. John frowned.

"No I don't think so," John replied and with that he was asleep. Sherlock spent a brief moment studying the quiet being in the bed before turning and leaving the room, switching off the light as he went.

Moments later Sherlock returned to John's room.

"John?"

"Mmm? What? Imawake," John slurred into his pillow.

"There's a woman asleep in my bed."

With this news John sat up rather quickly and squinted at Sherlock, outlined in the doorway by the light from the landing.

"Oh, can you send her in here please?" John tittered. Sherlock frowned at this request.

"Um...no. I think it's your sister."

John laughed at this very loudly, and for longer than Sherlock thought was necessary.

"Ok, good night then," Sherlock said bluntly and turned on his heels, heading back towards the stairs.

"Oi! No! Sherlock do _not_ get into bed with my sister. That's like...incest."

"No John, it really isn't."

John pulled at the corner of his duvet and patted the mattress. Sherlock heaved a sigh, feeling that he wasn't drunk enough for any of this. He climbed into John's bed and lay very still, listening to John mumbling incoherently. Eventually, the mumblings turned into loud, deep breaths of someone on the cusp of hyperventilating.

"Sherlock, I don't feel very well."

"Shh, John. Sleepy time now."

"Sherlock, I'm going to be sick," John gave a little sob. Sherlock gritted his teeth together.

"You'll be fine. Close your eyes and go to sleep."

There was a pause.

"Will you go and fetch me the bucket? I need a bucket."

"No," Sherlock huffed, sitting up in bed and glaring at the dark form of his irritating bed partner. "You do not need the bucket. You are fine. Go to sleep." As Sherlock threw himself back down onto the mattress, the motion made John retch, and Sherlock was highly irritated by John proving him wrong. John had needed the bucket after all.

"Urgh," Sherlock exclaimed, leaping from the bed. "Oh for goodness sake!" He couldn't help feeling that this was payback.

As the sun rose, Sherlock – who had spent most of the early hours sat on the bathroom floor with John – pulled back John's bedroom curtains and gave the ailing man a hard nudge. John groaned and tried to swallow several times but his mouth was too dry to obey.

"Whaisit?"

"Get up. Lestrade wants us."

John wanted to point out that he was unnecessary. However, his mouth wasn't functioning so he gave a negative grunt and rolled over, burying his head under his pillow.

"John. Up. Now. The fresh air will do you good."

An hour later, after John's several attempts to shower without vomiting, they headed for the crime scene; a derelict night club. Lestrade greeted Sherlock inside, looking rough but much livelier than John. He scowled at Sherlock.

"You were here last night, weren't you? After I specifically told you not to. I've seen the CCTV footage."

"And you were at my house last night," Sherlock replied dryly. "I've heard the voicemail." Lestrade managed a smile at this.

"Ah yes. You missed out. Where is John anyway?"

Sherlock looked around him, noticing for the first time that his companion was missing. He sniffed his indifference. It was irrelevant. He'd come to see the corpse.

"I assume he wasn't dead when you left him last night?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock looked up at him from his position next to the dead body.

"Earlier this morning actually, but you assume correctly. And no, I didn't kill him before you ask." He studied the corpse carefully for a long moment but grew irritated when his attention was caught by the shuffling feet and rasping cough of the new addition to the crime scene. John stared with bleary eyes down at Sherlock and the dead body before handing over a coffee to Lestrade. He held his own drink in his left hand, and produced a neatly wrapped bacon sandwich from out of his coat pocket. Sherlock remained crouched, his jaw open in disbelief. He stared from John to Lestrade then back to John, who was munching happily on his breakfast.

"Hang on...I'm sorry...Am I interrupting something?"

"No. Carry on," John mumbled through a mouthful of bacon sandwich. Lestrade hid his grin behind his cardboard cup. Sherlock remained still.

"Did you...just get yourself a sandwich?"

"Yes. How observant of you."

"How bloody selfish of _you_, John! This is a crime scene. This man is dead. Have you no shame? And you're getting sauce everywhere!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll just go wait in the car shall I? Or better yet, back in bed where you should have left me!"

They glared at each other and were interrupted by a small cough from the D.I.

"I hate to interrupt, but time's getting on and –"

"Yes. Fine. He topped himself," Sherlock snapped, wrenching off his latex gloves with force and throwing them on to the floor.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Any particular reason why?"

"Oh I don't know," Sherlock scoffed. "Maybe he was so disappointed that his flatmate bought himself a bacon sandwich without asking him if he wanted one first."

"Maybe he spent all night at a party where the host didn't even bother to show up?" John snapped back.

"Maybe his flatmate got so drunk that he threw up in the bed, and then on his feet and on the bathroom floor. And twice in the shower this morning!"

"Alright enough!" Lestrade shouted, causing Sherlock and John to jump apart, and the entire police staff to stop what they were doing and stare at the scene the pair had created. "Sherlock, thank you for your help, as always. Now please go home and take John with you. He's not looking so great."

John scowled at Lestrade as Sherlock dragged him past the D.I and towards the exit. The street was quiet and Sherlock hailed a cab with relative ease. They climbed into the back seat and stared out of opposite windows until they reached Baker Street.

Once home, John flung himself onto the sofa with a groan, and buried his face in his knees.

"Sobering up is no fun at all. I should just stay drunk the whole time. Problem solved."

"Now you're sounding like your sister," Sherlock remarked, sitting beside John. John looked up suddenly.

"Oh God, is she still here?"

"No," Sherlock chuckled. "She left earlier this morning while you were still unconscious."

"Oh," John said quietly into his knees. "I'm sorry I was an arse. I didn't mean to shout at you.

"It's fine. I _did_ mean to shout at you. You really _were_ getting sauce everywhere."

"Sorry," John mumbled, blinking regretfully up at Sherlock. He rested his head onto Sherlock shoulder and gave a big sigh. "Do you know what I've come to learn, Sherlock? That I don't like people. People make mess. I don't mean literal mess, not really anyway, but complications and irritations. Remember Christmas? It was only a week ago. It feels like a life time ago. Just you and me and a trifle. That's how it should be. My New Year's resolution is to avoid people at all costs."

Sherlock smiled thoughtfully at this. John would, of course, get bored. And Sherlock would have to take him out to interact with people, whether they be alive or dead, criminal or constabulary. It was his job to keep John entertained after all. Amongst other things.

"Sherlock?" John spoke up quietly after a while. "What's your New Year's resolution?"

Sherlock took a deep breath as he considered this.

"My New Year's resolution, John, is to listen to you more."

"Really?" John asked in surprise, rolling his head on Sherlock's shoulder to look up at him. "That means a lot Sherlock. Do you really mean that?"

"Yes," Sherlock told him firmly. "Next time you say you need a bucket, I shall fetch you a bucket."

The End

Thanks for reading. Have a good one wherever you are. I wish you health and happiness in 2011. Cheers!

With love,

K xx


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